How The Flash Really Got His Name
by Lapis Love
Summary: "Crimson leather filled her vision and slowly her gaze climbed the person standing about a foot away from her. Iris already knew who it was but she needed the confirmation anyways. It was him, her new obsession of sorts." Iris West called him The Streak but she was about to christen him with a new name. How? Read and find out. Slight AU one-shot.


**A/N: This is my first ever WestAllen/The Flash fanfiction. I've only watched a handful of episodes so this one-shot isn't based on any events surrounding canon. I'm not into science, forensic or whatever goes down at Star Labs to make it sound believable so I stayed far away from that, ha! But I do action/romance/drama fairly well. This is more Iris/The Flash, but Barry in his regular persona does make an appearance. Nevertheless I hope you like. Thanks for giving this a try. Enjoy!**

 ***Contains lemons***

Disclaimer: Characters belong to DC Comics and whoever owns The Flash on the CW Network. Copyright infringement is not intended.

* * *

The stench of gunpowder thickly permeated the air.

Her knees inadvertently dug into broken glass yet she ignored the stinging bite as she kept her head down, and prayed the speed of her racing heart would go unnoticed.

She took a risk by lifting her head a smidgen to peek at what was going on. She heard women and quite a few men sniffling, stifling tears and sobs while mumbling that help was on the way. Experience being a cop's daughter taught her that the authorities were already there, standing guard outside armed to the teeth ready to take the perps out with excessive force if necessary. The scene that followed, if the robbers took the unconventional way of escaping by boldly strutting through the front doors of the museum—which she highly doubted—then all hell would break loose.

Dark brown eyes quickly assessed the schematics of the mezzanine where approximately twenty-five minutes ago she had been enjoying the champagne and a speech being given by billionaire turned philanthropist Oliver Queen.

From the quick count Iris West did, there were seven armed men dressed in paramilitary uniforms, faces completely covered, lots of ammo strapped across their chests and outfitted along their legs. They spoke…Iris listened as carefully as she could to discern the language tumbling from their mouths in rapid fire. Was it…was it Mandarin? Mandarin Chinese? Possibly, Iris wasn't a hundred percent sure. She just knew it sounded similar to a language spoken by one of her frequent customers at the coffeehouse where she worked. Yet knowing that much would come in handy in identifying them when she would inevitably be questioned by the police, giving her account of events.

Periodically the armed men pointed semiautomatic weapons at the cowering guests who covered their heads in a futile attempt at protection. Iris was scared out of her mind, but she was keeping a tight lid on her fear. Her charcoal-eyed gaze zoomed to the right, to the glass double doors, the shot out windows as she heard the wail and squawk of sirens. It was there she finally became cognizant of the fact her best friend Barry Allen was missing.

"Barry?" she whispered heatedly, sweat breaking out across her forehead. The pain in her knees intensified.

Cursing inside her head, Iris licked her lips and wondered what could have happened to him during the ensuing skirmish when the robbers came storming into the museum, firing ammunition in the air and barking orders for everyone to get down on the ground—if she had to guess. Language barrier and all that.

Perhaps she and Barry were separated. Iris did what she could to look around the immediate area for any telltale signs of him. Came up empty. There were people hovering where they could find shelter behind marble podiums that showcased relics and precious artifacts dating back to the Byzantine Empire. Not one of them was Barry—relic or live human being.

Insofar no one had been snatched and taken as a hostage. The museum curator was trying to reason with the assailants to no avail. Her pleas were falling on deaf ears. Iris watched in horror as a double barrel shotgun was aimed right at the curator's face who paled considerably.

As discreetly as she could, Iris reached for her stiletto, fingers gliding around the smooth leather. These shoes were a gift from her overprotective father Detective Joe West who wanted her to have an out in every situation. A small throwing blade about three inches long carefully hidden in her stiletto slipped out of its special compartment on the bottom of her shoe and right into her hand. Gripping the blade, Iris wondered if her aim was still as good as it had been six months ago the last time she trained with weapons when she thought she'd be a cop.

The sound of shots being fired squeezed Iris' heart and she swallowed a scream. Her ears rang with the sound of bullets hitting marble and steel. Out of reflex her eyes closed and she hunkered closer to the ground. When this round of fire ended, Iris glanced up and saw that one of the armed and masked men had taken an old woman hostage.

Iris' conscience yelled for her to do something; self-preservation on the other hand told her to wait and let the police, SWAT, and whoever else had arrived to do what they had been trained to do. This wasn't her fight and she was severely outgunned.

Her scalp itched and prickled with helplessness, but surviving meant knowing when to move into action and when to take cover. The blade dug into the palm of her hand adding another layer of urgency to see this whole mess come to an end without a high body count.

Iris realized she should be fearful for her life, but if the assailants were bent on wreaking carnage they would have rounded everyone up and shot them execution style from the beginning. They were after something and were determined to get it. Several prominent members of Central City were under this very roof. They could in a sense carry out a government takeover if that was their goal, but clearly it wasn't.

Two of the museum security guards hustled into the mezzanine carrying a heavy silver crate. Their shirts were stained with sweat and Iris could hear them breathing hard from where she crouched. The man in charge of the armed robbers walked behind them, gun pointed at their backs. Unlike his hired grunts, this man wasn't wearing a paramilitary uniform. He was actually dressed in black jeans, a quarter length stylish black coat and a white Oxford shirt. Iris locked all of that into memory. His face though was obscured by a mask one crafted to look exactly like the face of Oliver Queen.

That made Iris' brows draw together in confusion at the meaning. A powerful man like Oliver Queen would have plenty of enemies, Iris thought. But maybe this was the robbers attempt at humor? Sending a message to Oliver?

The Oliver clone—Iris didn't know what to refer to him as, ordered his armed perp to let the old woman go who was clearly distressed and having trouble breathing. His words had been spoken in English yet carried an accent Iris was willing to bet was Australian.

"She's having a heart attack," a person close to Iris said.

An argument broke out between the Oliver clone and the perp detaining the woman. Angry words were traded between them while two others moved toward the museum security guards and took possession of the crate.

Before she could even process this, the perps opened fired on the security guards who crumbled to the ground hardly able to turn and run for their lives.

Another chorus of screams, cries, and wails from the terrified captives echoed off the walls.

Officially horrified, a light film of sweat coated Iris' entire body. She was prepared to throw the small dagger hoping to strike one of the perps in the neck if possible. Just as she slowly started to push to her feet, something remarkable happened.

An arrow whizzed past the head of the Oliver clone and burrowed into the neck of the perp holding the old woman hostage. Both fell to the ground. The Oliver clone aimed his gun and started firing, zigzagging across the mezzanine, running for the exit while shouting for his men to bring the crate and get out. Iris was prepared to race over to lend what assistance she could to the woman, but yet another shoot out ensued. A terrifying exchange of metal bullets and wooden arrows.

Glass, relics, artifacts were blown to bits. Those who decided to risk it and run where shot and fell limply to the hard, unforgiving marble floor. Some were instantly killed; others were injured leaving them little option but to crawl to safety.

Police and SWAT stormed the museum.

During the mêlée, Iris decided not to be a sitting duck. She booked it, keeping herself as low as she could as she hurdled over bodies, hid behind objects that were barely intact, and made it to the old woman. Her hand had just landed on the woman's bony shoulder to turn her over since she lied face down on the ground when something heavy tackled her to the ground.

Iris cried out as pain exploded on her hip and her head bounced off the floor. Stars flashed behind her surprised lids. Broken English was yelled into her ear and, without thinking, Iris adjusted the blade and rammed it where she hoped the perp's eye was.

The person stiffened, rolled off of Iris and flailed around while holding on to his eye, holding on to the object protruding from it. His screams went up to the rafters and seconds later he went still.

A rush of bile flew up her esophagus but Iris swallowed it back down. The world around her went on a tailspin taking her with it and she searched blindly for the ground not realizing she was already sitting on it. Shaking her head to clear it, Iris focused—dazedly—on the old woman who was wheezing very shallowly. Carefully turning the woman over, her startled blue eyes were wide open and her gnarled hand rose very slowly to her chest.

"It's okay," Iris declared. "Don't try to move. I'm going to get you some help. Okay? Just lie still and try to take deep breaths."

Tears rolled down the woman's age spot speckled face. "It…hurts…" the woman intoned.

"I know and I'm sorry." Iris whipped her head to the left and right seeking out anyone who was strong enough and uninjured who might be able to carry the woman out of the museum and to a waiting ambulance outside.

She didn't know that the perp she assaulted was pointing his automatic rifle at her.

A brisk wind made the curled strands of her hair fly into her face, getting stuck on her lip gloss covered lips.

A thump, grunt and silence filled Iris' ears.

Crimson leather filled her vision and slowly her gaze climbed the person standing about a foot away from her. Iris already knew who it was but she needed the confirmation anyways. It was him, her new obsession of sorts.

The second her eyes reached his face hoping that she might be able to see it up close and personal and out of the shadows, she was…supremely let down. His face was blurred.

The Streak, as she affectionately dubbed him, tossed aside the gun the perp had been aiming at her head while she had been distracted with the woman. "Are you okay?" his voice vibrated as she had come used to hearing during their rooftop meetings.

Tongue twisted, Iris nodded. "Yes, but…she needs a doctor. She might be having a heart attack."

The Streak moved with lightning speed, carefully reaching for the old woman and rushed her outside where he deposited her on a gurney to the surprise of the EMTs who _just_ pulled it from the back of the ambulance.

Iris only had time to blink once before The Streak stood in front of her again. Her heart, which had been pounding out of fear now pounded in exhilaration. She'd blame it on the adrenaline, but this was her fifth time encountering The Streak and like the first she couldn't help the feeling of thrall that came over her.

You're being ridiculous, Iris the man is a vigilante. Sure he might not be violent like the Arrow (side note is he here?), but he places himself in dangerous situations.

So does your dad, Iris counter argued her original argument. The only real difference between her father and The Streak was the fact her dad was licensed to stop crime. Oh, and he didn't wear a full leather body suit.

A gloved hand extended toward her and slowly, cautiously, Iris laid her hand in his. His fingers closed over hers and she swore she felt electricity, a lightning awareness zing up her arm and head to the space between her legs.

Flushing at the thought, Iris was pulled gently to her feet.

"You're hurt," The Streak informed.

A crease formed between Iris' arched brows. Unless she was experiencing a delayed reaction to pain she was pretty sure she hadn't taken a bullet or an arrow in any pertinent body part.

Iris glanced down doing her own assessment and saw tiny shards of glass poking out of her knee caps. Tiny rivers of blood trailed down her bare legs. Now she kind of regretted foregoing wearing that black sateen pant suit. It could have added a layer of protection.

"I just need a Band-Aid or…several," Iris joked and begged her young, investigative journalism skills to kick in. "How did you know a robbery was in progress? How do you always know where to be?"

The Streak didn't answer but looked over his shoulder and then back at Iris. She felt herself being lifted and rushed outside. The wind cooled her heated skin and ripped a few tears from her eyes. When the world stopped moving Iris sat perched on a gurney.

She scoffed and hopped down wincing slightly due to her bruised legs. Iris made her way around the plethora of fire trucks, police cruisers, and ambulances stationed outside of the museum their flashing blue, white red lights illuminating the surrounding buildings.

Instinct told her to look up. She skidded to a stop when she saw The Streak and the Arrow standing on top of the museum. Seeing them standing side by side increased the thumping of her blood. What was Sterling City's vigilante doing here? From what Iris was observing it would appear the Arrow and The Streak were acquaintances. Were they part of some…justice league picking up the slack of overworked and underpaid law enforcement?

"Iris!"

The woman in question didn't turn at the summons of her name. Instead her eyes remained glued to the roof until both men disappeared.

"Iris!"

Arms enclosed around her and she was pulled into the cushiony warmth of her father's chest.

"Dad, I'm okay," Iris answered damn near on autopilot.

"Are you hurt?" Joe West held his daughter at arm's length. His brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth pulled down as he took in the state of her bleeding legs. "Come on, you need to get those wounds treated so they don't get infected."

Joe tucked Iris underneath his arm helping her across the hot pavement toward a waiting ambulance all the while barking out instructions at uniformed cops.

"Iris! Joe!"

"Barry?" Iris maneuvered out of her dad's embrace and waited for her best friend. She was relieved Barry was okay, but pissed off that he disappeared on her.

As soon as he was close and pulled her into a brief hug, Iris inhaled his scent and felt her rattled nerves settling, but they weren't completely placated.

"Where the hell were you?" Iris scolded and pushed Barry a little.

Barry Allen immediately looked apologetic and sheepish, his silver-green eyes staring earnestly at his best friend and the man who was like a second father to him. His mouth opened to start spewing a litany of excuses that Iris had heard a thousand times before.

"I'm sorry, Iris. I took off when I saw an opportunity to call the police. I didn't…I didn't mean to leave you."

"Well you did. I was almost shot."

"What?" Joe barked and moved closer to Iris reassessing her again.

"But," she filled in, "The Streak disarmed the perp before he could fire. He got me out while you," and Iris proceed to smack Barry on the arm, "left me high and dry with no idea if you had been taken, shot, or killed."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry. It won't happen again. You have my word," Barry promised.

"Yeah, I've heard that before. Did you see any of what happened?"

Barry resisted scratching the back of his neck. "Just a little."

"And Oliver," Iris persisted. "What happened to him?"

Barry shrugged. Joe watched. He knew about Barry's secret and Oliver's to a certain extent. Wasn't terribly difficult to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Iris sighed, "I'm just ready to go home."

"My guy will take you," Joe waved a uniformed cop over and turned to, "Barry I need you to stay here to process the scene."

"Of course…although I should probably see that Iris gets home first."

"No, you have work to do," Iris rebutted. "I'll be okay."

"Barry…Iris…" Oliver ran up to them.

"Oh, hey Oliver," Barry turned to face him.

Iris' felt her eyes go big. This wasn't her first time meeting or exchanging words with the billionaire, but the novelty had yet to rub off. He was just so damn…hot!

One vain thought ran through Iris and her hand went up to try to tame her disheveled locks.

"Hey," she smiled. Everything about Oliver was still impeccably put together you wouldn't have thought he had been in the middle of a shootout between armed gunmen, the police, the Arrow, and The Streak. And as Iris thought about it, she hadn't seen much of Oliver once the night turned into a bloodbath.

"You guys okay?" Oliver asked, his gaze volleying between Barry and Iris.

"I'm a bit shaken up but that's par for the course," Iris replied. "I see you're fine."

"I have overzealous bodyguards to blame for that," Oliver's azure eyes dropped below the hemline of her cocktail dress. "Iris, your legs. You need to get them checked out."

Funny she couldn't feel her legs with him looking directly at them. "I will. I'm going to."

"Good, well I'm glad you're otherwise okay. Barry…Joe when you guys have a minute can we talk?"

"Sure."

Oliver smiled at the Wests and back away leaving the threesome to their impromptu conference.

Nosiness reared its head and Iris wanted details but what she really hunkered for was information and a one-on-one with Oliver Queen. Wouldn't that impress her journalism instructors if she managed to do what many, even in the professional world, couldn't accomplish? An exclusive interview with one of the more unconventional billionaires whose family was tainted by a scandal that involved the deaths of over five hundred people and the disappearance of its patriarch?

Iris saw little Nobel Prize trophies skipping across her vision.

"Baby," Joe said, shaking Iris out of her daydream, "you should head home."

"Don't you need to take my statement?"

"Jerry can take it while he drives you home."

Knowing that her argument to stay would be denied, Iris acquiesced to her father's authority, and was driven home although she never stopped searching for that infamous yellow streak and the man who left it in his wake.

* * *

With the night's excitement over, freshly showered and dressed in an oversized T-shirt and her favorite shorts, Iris sat on the couch. Intermittently her thoughts were consumed with The Streak. Where he was? What he was doing? Who he was?

Was he thinking about her? It became a quest to keep her interaction with him tonight to herself. Her dad would scowl and order her to stay away or better yet report him. Barry would echo whatever her dad said. She was old enough to be a good judge of character and so far The Streak had been more of a guardian angel than a menace. His actions by some would be viewed as obstruction of justice, but The Streak took on those criminals the police simply weren't equipped to handle.

Could he really be that bad if he risked his life for people who didn't know him?

Presently, Iris fought a smile as a Dora the Explorer Band-Aid was placed over one particularly nasty looking gouge caused by broken glass.

"This was all they had left at the pharmacy," Barry explained when he walked through the door a couple of hours after processing the museum.

"Thank you, Barry."

He sat back against the sofa. "It's the least I could do since leaving you to…to deal with everything that happened tonight. Besides these physical wounds are you sure you're okay?"

Iris shrugged and reached for her mug of tea. She took a small sip and crossed her legs at the ankles. Barry slid closer so that she could rest her feet on his lap.

"Like I told my dad a hundred times before…I'm good. What I'm more interested in knowing is why the museum was robbed in the middle of a publicized event? Do the police have the names the ones responsible?"

"You know I can't comment on an ongoing investigation."

Iris rolled her eyes.

If there was one thing Barry hated doing, which he had been doing in ever increasing frequency was lying to his best friend. He wanted to tell Iris everything, expose the changes he'd undergone after the particle accelerator explosion at Star Labs. Yet he held on to the belief she was safer without knowing which this in turn snowballed into him being dishonest with the woman he loved.

And that was yet another thing Barry was keeping from Iris. The fact he was hopelessly, ardently in love with her. Had been since he was a kid. Matters weren't helped with her gorgeous, silky brown legs thrown over his in spite of them being covered with juvenile Band-Aids.

"Yes, but at the moment I'm not a reporter…well a college reporter but a reporter all the same. I was there, a witness. I think that entitles me to being clued in on certain facts."

Folding his arms mostly to quell his yearning to caress Iris' legs, Barry chewed the inside of his cheek. If Joe found out Barry knew his ass would get chewed out from here to Gotham, would have to endure another one of his surrogate father's lectures about police confidentiality. However, Iris did have a right to know something's about what happened tonight. Her life had been endangered and she came perilously close to being shot. Those were two very good reasons why she should know.

Barry cleared his throat, "I can't divulge who the suspects are, but know they are part of a much larger cartel that's been giving several metropolitan cities grief. They were after a precious metal that can be used for military grade artillery. CCPD were able to apprehend a few members of the cartel. The rest were killed on site."

"What about the guy wearing the Oliver Queen mask? Was he apprehended?"

Barry sighed heavily. "He's still out there. The metal is in police custody."

"Where more than likely it'll probably be stolen. Isn't that how it works in the movies?"

"Yeah, probably," Barry agreed with a laugh and yet another pang went through him.

The truth was, the metal was being housed in storage at Star Labs, but Barry figured Iris didn't need to know that detail. In the off-chance she did decide to write a report.

He stared at the beautiful shape of her face, his gaze getting caught on her well-formed lips where he thought tirelessly of how they felt. His cheek had been a recipient of Iris' kiss plenty of times, but that hadn't been the exact place Barry wanted to feel his best friend's mouth.

Blocking those thoughts before Iris felt a noticeable poke against her legs, he said, "I know I said this before, but I'm glad you're okay."

Iris offered a tight-lipped smile. Barry and his disappearing acts and vague explanations left a lot of questions burning on the tip of her tongue. She didn't need to be a journalist-in-the-making to know he was hiding something. They promised when they were kids they wouldn't have any secrets. Iris knew they weren't kids anymore and that something's had to be kept private, she just wished Barry would talk to her.

The two of them stared at one another.

"What's going on with you, Bare?"

"What do you mean?"

"For months…ever since you woke up from your coma I feel like you've been keeping something from me or…keeping a part of yourself guarded."

Barry fidgeted a little. "Do you tell me everything that goes on in your life?" he didn't mean to sound snappish but Iris was hitting too close to home.

He hadn't forgotten the way she stared at him—well The Streak. She had stared at her "hero" adoringly, and Barry found himself being irrationally jealous of his alter ego. He would be willing to commit murder to get Iris to stare at him with broiling affection, passion, lust. Instead he had to make due with her infatuation for his masked persona who used his meta-human speed to solve crime. More than anything Barry wanted to tell Iris that he was The Streak, he just couldn't. It wasn't time.

Iris blinked but conceded Barry had a point. She didn't tell him everything but he knew enough. "No, I don't tell you everything, Barry and it's not because I don't want you to know…It's just what I know, seen, been a part of it's not for me to say."

"Then that's something we have in common. You mean everything to me and I realize that if I can't be open and honest with you then who can I be open and honest with. When the time is right, I'll tell you everything. For now I think we both should head to bed. I have work, you have class."

Iris knew this was a brush off, but her earlier vigor was completely gone and she was bone tired.

Barry helped her off the couch and together they walked upstairs each branching off going to their respective rooms.

Iris was out in seconds after her head hit the pillow. Her first few dreams were fretful, grisly dramatizations of smartly dressed patrons being gunned down.

Things shifted.

Someone was in her bedroom. Iris spied a figure lurking in the far corner next to her door. Iris was prepared to scream, until the person moved out of the shadows and into the sliver of moonlight spilling into her bedroom. Immediately she calmed down after recognizing who it was. Although a pinch of fear raced along her veins igniting her blood, but the accelerant wasn't terror, but want, curiosity, _need_.

The Streak was in her bedroom and Iris knew she was dreaming though a much larger part of her hoped this was reality. She felt like a teenager again with her first crush, which was stupid and pointless. Having fantasies and daydreams about being the girlfriend of a superhero happened in comics and movies based on comics. Nevertheless this was her real life were a masked man broke his silence to her and seemingly watched out for her as well.

There was no question as to Iris being flattered. She was.

Iris licked her dry lips. "What are you doing here? Are you trying to get caught?"

The Streak didn't respond. His hand lifted to the zipper in the front of his uniform and slowly pulled it down.

Her skin flushed with awareness. "What are you doing?"

"You want to know who I am, Iris?" his voice sounded more graveled than riddled with a vibration. "Well there's only one way I can think to show you."

Iris reached to turn on her beside lamp.

"No, don't," The Streak pleaded.

Iris frowned and kept her eyes on him through the darkness engulfing him. "I want to see you."

"I need you to trust me."

"You're asking for a lot."

"I know but…this is the way it has to be. I can't…I can't stop thinking about you, Iris West."

She wanted to return the sentiment but held her tongue. The Streak peeled off his uniform, pulled off his helmeted mask, the items dropping to the floor. He stepped out of his discarded uniform and crossed the short distance to her bed.

He was naked, Iris ogled. His build was slight giving the impression he wasn't very strong, but Iris had seen him fight and win against men twice his size. His muscles were lean, skin pale. As her head quirked to the side Iris thought he reminded her of Barry. The long neck that tapered into broad shoulders, narrow hips, the lanky arms and legs was a dead ringer.

While she had been comparing him to her best friend, The Streak had pulled back the sheet and cotton duvet. Iris was momentarily paralyzed.

"Wait," she scrambled to sit up. "I think your way of showing me who you are is much different from mine."

"Do you want me, Iris?"

The question caught her so off guard that it made her heart palpitate. Her voice was whisper soft, "I don't know you."

"You know I'd do anything to protect you."

"Why me?"

"Isn't it obvious? I care for you and it's as simple as that."

Hardly anything in life was that simple.

His arm extended and his hand cupped her face. So much of him remained shrouded in darkness, but Iris found herself unable to resist wanting to be touched by him. If only to confirm he was real.

The Streak's thumb lightly caressed her cheek and Iris leaned into him. She swallowed thickly and thought of the last time she had been kissed. Some guy at a New Year's Eve party. She had had one glass of champagne too many and he had been available. But as Iris tried to think of the last person she'd been intimate with…she couldn't think back that far.

Yet engaging in casual sex that wasn't her thing. She may have held gratitude toward The Streak in her heart that didn't grant him automatic access to her vagina.

Said vagina had other ideas. Iris felt the slippery essence of lubricant wet the seat of her panties.

Iris legs of their own volition went their separate ways as The Streak dipped a knee on the mattress and hovered over her.

"You care for me?" she asked as she was lowered on the bed.

"I do. The first time we met I felt a connection with you, Iris. Did you feel it, too?"

She did. Iris nodded.

"Being what I am…it makes it difficult to be close to people, but I value our connection, Iris. I need it. I _need_ you."

A heavy and precipitous thrum occurred between her legs where The Streak wedged himself.

This was the epitome of madness. She'd never seen his face or heard his real voice since he took pains to disguise it, but in spite of that she wanted to be with The Streak. Even if this ended up being a dream it would be one helluva of dream worth having.

His weight bore down on her, the heat of him encased Iris, and when The Streak thrust his hips the tip of his erection slid over her mound. She hissed; lashes of succulent pleasure writhed over every inch of her flesh making her feel like she was humming all over.

Her eyes fluttered close but Iris forced them open. She wanted to see his face but it was hidden in damnable shadows which frustrated Iris to no end.

Nevertheless, her fingers threaded through the hair on the nape of his neck drawing his face closer to hers.

The Streak halted. "Do you want this? Do you want to be with me?"

"For tonight or…are you talking something more long-term?"

"Both? I'll leave it up to you. Do you want me, Iris?"

She shouldn't want someone she didn't know yet for someone who followed the rules her entire life, Iris could be reckless. Being with The Streak would be reckless so she decided to take the plunge.

Without a word spoken Iris figured the best way to let The Streak know she wanted him was by kissing him. Their mouths fused together in a bruising, impatient, wet kiss that had her moaning and her tongue massaging his.

Her knees came up, her ankles scissoring across his lower back. Iris' clothes seem to disappear without her having to remove a single article. Her naked breasts pressed against The Streak's chest, the friction making her dusky and thick nipples pebble and hardened.

The Streak broke their kiss and his lips traveled along her jaw, neck. Blunt teeth nipped her collarbone, continued to head south. Iris' back arched the second a moist tongue circled one areola, then the neglected one before her nipple was sucked voraciously.

She whimpered at the onslaught of pleasure and tried to watch as much as she could while The Streak made his way down her body dropping open-mouth kisses along the way.

The Streak worked his shoulders under her legs and Iris held her breath. Waited. Her hands clenched the sheets as soon as a long lick tasted her clit.

Iris grew impossibly wetter to the point she didn't think it was humanly possible to be as wet as she was. Fingers parted her sex; an inquisitive tongue traced the shape of her, mapping her dripping topography.

Breathing hitching, Iris grabbed The Streak by the crown of his head but he caught her maundering digits linking their fingers together.

She had no idea what The Streak was doing but it felt like he was vibrating his face while he ate her pussy like it was a hot fudge sundae.

Too soon her end was coming. Iris tried to articulate that but the warning was unintelligible gibberish. Her eyes crossed, toes curled, back arched off the bed.

"Oh…god…oh…damn I'm 'bout to come! Oh god let me come!" Iris shrieked. She didn't care about being quiet. She wanted to be loud because loud seemed the only volume appropriate for what The Streak was doing to her.

One of his fingers penetrated her hot folds, another, and before long he was fucking her with three fingers. The combined sound of her gushy wetness, the slurp of a tongue licking at her center wildly, The Streak's humming, her panted screams added a decadent and amplified layer of intensity that made blood pound in Iris' skull.

She couldn't take anymore. Iris burst apart, ripped clean down the middle as the _biggest_ orgasm of her life catapulted her straight into the arms of bliss. She didn't just see stars but little bursts of lightning. Her body went completely taut as she rode out the wave of heightened ecstasy that had her cursing and thrashing around on the bed trying to escape the wicked lash and quickness of The Streak's tongue.

Minutes may have passed before she deflated or felt any semblance of normality. Tiny kisses were planted along her thigh, belly, the underside of her breasts, neck, chin, forehead, and finally her lips.

Iris tasted herself. She sunk her hand between them reaching for his hardened instrument to bury it in her quivering, lava hot twat.

The feel of The Streak's dick made her greedy for a taste. He had considerable length, and was a nice solid size. There was no hiding that he wanted her just as badly. She smeared the dewy drops of his pre-cum over the bulbous head making him moan.

"Ready?" The Streak asked. The question probably would have sounded cocky coming from someone else, but he was too breathless and could barely get the word out.

Iris, with The Streak's assistance, tilted her hips and waited. Her eyes squeezed shut once that mushroom head breached her tender opening and continue to burrow deep inside her wetness, hitting bottom. Exquisite sensation cycled through them both inspiring filthy and coarse expletives to tumble from their mouths.

"How do you want it, Iris?"

"Fast."

She really shouldn't have said that.

"Iris!"

What the? What the _hell_? Her eyes snapped open and she cursed as bright sunlight beamed right in her face. GOTDAMMIT! Her dream…it had been a dream? She was confused while the rest of her fractured into unfulfilled pieces. Iris blindly looked for something to throw at Barry's intrusive head poking into her room.

"What?" she asked groggily.

"Wake up. You're going to be late."

Gaping at her alarm clock, Iris let out a huff. Black digital numbers informed it was a quarter to eight and she had a class at eight-thirty. Iris was on the cusp of bursting into tears.

She should have shot of bed like a rocket, but loitered. Her first sex dream in months with a partially anonymous vigilante was interrupted by her best friend. Naturally that would happen to her.

Sensing that Barry had not left, Iris peeked at her doorway and sure enough he was still there.

"What is it?" she snapped.

"Nothing…it's just…you moaned something right before I came in."

Iris' cheeks grew hot. "Thanks for waking me. Can I get a little privacy so I can get ready?" she so wasn't going to ask for clarification on what she moaned. It was bad enough Barry caught her moaning in the first place.

"Sure. I'll see you downstairs."

Iris didn't move until she heard the soft click of her bedroom door closing. Rubbing her face with her hands, Iris traveled back to her dream, but bounded out of bed searching the floor. Why? It wasn't like The Streak, if he had been with her and buried _in_ her sure as hell wouldn't leave his uniform behind.

Her floor was clear of any telling garments or footprints. Sighing, Iris laughed deprecatingly.

"Here one minute and gone in a flash the next," she lamented, took two steps toward her bathroom, and stopped.

Her jaw dropped open.

* * *

The sound of incessant typing drew Joe West to the living room. He leaned his shoulder into the doorjamb and watched his daughter updating her blog.

"I thought you were going to give that a rest?"

"I'm just answering email inquiries from my followers," Iris stopped typing and looked at Joe. "I haven't reported on anymore sightings, but The Flash was seen last night at the museum and a few are curious."

Joe frowned. "The Flash?"

Iris smiled and turned back to her laptop screen. "Yeah, I felt it was time to upgrade his name. The Streak isn't…it doesn't capture him. _The Flash_ pretty much sums him up. Here one minute and gone in a flash. Quick to help in a flash. Get my drift?" Able to get me off in a flash, Iris withheld in revealing.

Joe pushed away from the doorjamb, shaking his head.

Iris stopped typing, and clicked to a blurry image of The Flash she managed to capture a few weeks back. "One day I'm going to know exactly who you are. _Every_ part. Until then, I guess my dreams will do."

||Fini||

 **A/N: There you have it folks. Thanks for reading! Review, review, review. I may do another one-shot if persuaded.**


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